This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission. Also, these words were made funnier by the editorial goodness of Sarah del Rio.

In 2012, Bic released a line of pens designed exclusively for women. They were called Bic for Her™ and they were just like their regular pens except that they came in pink and purple. This made sense because women like pretty colors.

These pens were not well-received by bloggers, the media, or anyone who owned a uterus. In fact, the backlash was so severe that I assumed the Bic for Her™ line had been taken out of production. I was wrong. Not only are they still available, they sell surprisingly well on Amazon.

So I got to thinking—maybe these pens could help me. If I used these pens, would I find myself writing in a more feminine style? Would these pens unleash my inner caged bird, like Maya Angelou? Would I be able to sculpt metaphysical poems, like Emily Dickinson? (I’d give more examples, but those are the only female writers I know.)

Long story short, I decided to find out how well these Bic for Her pens work. For him!

When the Bic for Her package arrived, I chose the pink pen as it was the more girly of the two. Excited for the beautiful prose sure to follow, I grabbed my notebook and opened to a blank page. Before my pen touched paper, a spider darted across the floor. Normally, I would have chased the invader down and crushed him into the linoleum barefooted. Imagine my surprise when I leapt atop my desk, terrified. Also, I was screaming.

Whoa… that never happened with my non-pink Bics. I called my friend Bob who promised to come right over and take care of the spider—he muttered something as he hung up, but I didn’t quite catch it.

After Bob left, I sat back down at my desk with my pink pen. Perhaps I was moments away from writing the pre-eminent opinion on breastfeeding, but then I felt something… down there. I looked toward my lap and realized: OH, SHIT! I’M HAVING MY FIRST EVER SPOTTING DAY! And of course I was wearing my Gap white capris. Dejected, I found a bag of Hershey’s chocolate chips in my baking drawer, and ate three huge fistfuls. Then I binge-watched Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

I ended up tossing the Bic for Her pens. Maybe they were literally just “for her,” because I felt better almost as soon as I got rid of them. There were no more emotional outbursts or weird cravings. I was able to think and act in a rational manner. Sure, my writing still sucked. But at least I didn’t have to worry about frizz humidity.

I went to Nashville to see the eclipse because my dentist told me to.

Throughout my life, whenever anyone asks me to list my dream vacation destinations, I stare back with blank eyes. It has never occurred to me to cultivate places I’d like to visit. Even now, I have no idea of where I’d like to travel to next. I’ve never turned on the Travel Channel and I don’t find myself fantasizing of being anywhere other than where I currently am. That being said, I go on a fair number of trips. My only rule is that I never try to visit the same place twice. That’s for squares, if you ask me (you didn’t).

A few years ago I went to Nicaragua because someone tweeted the suggestion. Last year I did the fall color change thing in the North East due to a recommendation from a stranger. Because I have no travel goals of my own, I’m a blank canvas. If you provide me a good enough reason to visit Dubuque, Iowa, I just might load up the camper.

I do not own a camper, nor will I ever. My grandfather had a Winnebago and we once went on a multi-state trip. It was miserable. Riding in a Winnebago is the world’s most expensive way to travel third class.

As I was sitting in a dental cleaning this past spring, my dentist asked what my plans were for the global solar eclipse. I understood all three of those words individually, but I had never heard them said together at the same time. Whatever a global solar eclipse was, it must be important, I concluded. I didn’t want to sound like someone not-in-the-know, so I said, “Oh, I haven’t decided yet. What about you?” He said, “Well, ground zero is Nashville, so that’s where the wife and I are headed.”

I walked out of the dental office (no cavities) and texted my girlfriend. “We’re headed to Nashville for the global solar eclipse!” She replied back with, “Can’t wait! What’s that?”

So, we spent the eclipse weekend in Nashville, visiting the Opry, the Ryman Theater, eating barbeque, and watching honky tonk bands. We decided that for the eclipse we’d spend it at the Belle Meade Plantation as they were having a viewing party. We had planned on touring Belle Meade anyway, so this seemed like a good fit.

I hadn’t done the math that pre-civil war plantation + south = slavery. Had that occurred to me, I likely wouldn’t have chosen that location to celebrate the moon passing in front of the sun. As I was setting up the chair for a good view, I realized this was the exact area where people were forced to work and live against their will. It’s a bummer for sure.

My mood soon lifted as I noticed a woman nearby seated in the lotus position chanting and singing with eyes closed. It was, well, weird. I listened to her words and it became clear she was a sun worshipper. I’m guessing in the sun worship faith, an eclipse is a big deal. I started judging her as a kook, because, it’s only the sun and moon doing what they do.

And then I had a terrible realization. That woman was less crazy than me. Or at least not more crazy. She was praying to something you could actually see. I pray to an invisible man in the sky that nobody in history has ever photographed. The sun might not be able to forgive sins and stuff, but at least you can point at it. Also, if the sun didn’t exist, life wouldn’t either, so that could be argued as god-like, I guess.

As the time of the eclipse approached all of us in the plantation field put on our glasses. We watched an orange sun and moon move across the sky toward each other. About five minutes before totality the sky grew dark and the crickets started chirping. I guess they thought it was nighttime, even though it was only 1:25pm.

We stared at the sky with our glasses until the sun and moon were aligned perfectly. Then it was totally black in our glasses. The science lady on site yelled for everyone to take off our glasses. Hundreds of us all removed our glasses at the same time. Since I had done exactly zero research on eclipses, I had no idea what to expect.

At first everyone cheered and hollered. But only for a few seconds. Then, the whoops died and it became eerily quiet. We all were trying to process what we were seeing. There was a black circle in the sky with the whitest of light peering out from the around it. The light was animated and moved like the flames in a fire, around the moon. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, and I found myself unable to speak. I’m trying to stay away from hyperbole, but it may have been the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.

We were able to view the eclipse for about ninety seconds before the science lady told us it was time to put our glasses back on. As hundreds of us did, a collective applause filled the air. I could hear people crying. Others were whistling and shouting. It was really something.

I slumped in my chair. In books and movies characters witness something so beautiful that it brings them to tears. That had never happened to me. But there I was, sitting in my lawn chair trying to make sense of what I had just seen. The tears started. Not many, mind you. But a few.

Oh, and by the way, during totality I offered a prayer to the sun-god asking him (her?) to heal my tennis elbow by Tuesday so I could crush my opponent in league play. It didn’t work. My arm still hurts like hell. I guess I’ll go back to the physical therapist. Rats.

Photo Credit: dr.farisvelia Flickr via Compfight cc
Photo Credit: ongsoonkeat Flickr via Compfight cc

In order to get my hernia fixed, I first needed to get cleared for surgery.

If you missed part one where I wrote about the discovery of a disgusting belly button hernia, click here to familiarize yourself.

The surgeon who was to perform the hernia operation told me I must first see another doctor who could run the appropriate clearance tests. I guess once you become a surgeon you don’t have to do the low-level stuff. Like how the guy who drives the garbage truck doesn’t leave the driver’s seat. He’s got a guy riding on the back who deals with the actual garbage.

I protested that I didn’t need any tests and he could take my word that I was healthy enough to handle a small incision. My case was admittedly unconvincing as I didn’t have a fancy medical degree and my knowledge of gastroenterology was limited to knowing that word means “gut stuff.” I further weakened my position by acknowledging that I hadn’t read the medical questionnaire I was handed at the beginning of my appointment. He frowned when I told him this. But, c’mon, does anyone actually pour through those questions with precision? I simply checked “no” to every disorder, disease, or preexisting condition. If this was a more serious medical issue, like a triple heart bypass, I’d take the “Have you ever bled from the eyeballs?” question more seriously.

But even if I had completed the medical questionnaire correctly he would have made me get cleared for surgery anyway. It’s a malpractice thing. Lawyers ruin everything, right? I mean, until you need a lawyer to sue someone because they said you have a tiny wiener on Snapchat and though the message self-destructed a few people saw it and your reputation had been damaged enough to sue for restitution. I wouldn’t know because I don’t have a tiny wiener. Seriously. Let’s clear that shit up right quick.

Upon arrival at the medical testing facility I met the general practitioner who would perform the necessary exams. And while I feel that salespeople in general are annoying, I had to hand it to this guy. He was the best up-seller (note – not a word) I’ve ever seen. Halfway through the blood work he asks, “Hey, when’s the last time you had a physical?” It had been over a year and he said, “Should we tack it on?” I was already in my underwear so I said, “Sure.”

After the physical I was upsold again. “Hey, you’re dating, right?” I nodded. “You probably want to check for STDs, then. Should I perform the HIV test?” I told the doctor he did not need to sell me on an HIV test. In fact, I told him that for the rest of our relationship as a doctor-patient, he never again needed to ask me for permission to perform this test. He should just do the test. I don’t care if it’s free or costs $300. HIV is an important piece of information and I told him I would never say, “No thanks. I’m good.”

When he came back with the HIV-negative results a few minutes later, he pushed on. “You know, since we’re doing all this other stuff do you want us to test for every STD?” I said, “Once again, you never need to ask me that.” This doctor was now batting 1.000.. As he’s pricking my finger for herpes or whatever I asked, “Wait – does anyone actually turn down the STD test?” He said that many people do. Which made me feel superior to those people. Which felt good.

After all the tests were completed, he announced me I was in excellent shape for surgery, I added, “..also, in excellent shape to hit the disco tonight for some action, right Doc?” Not my best joke. “Actually,” he said, “We won’t know about the full STD results for three days. We’ll call you when they come in.”

I asked that they not call me unless it was bad news. I’d rather not be bothered. However, if they find out that I’m ridden with chlamydia, please go ahead and send word. He said that it was protocol to call with the results, positive or negative. I waived him off and said, “Seriously, just call if there’s bad news.”

A nurse called a few days later and told me the lab results came in and that I was negative on all STDs. I thought of making a joke telling her I went to an EDM concert over the weekend and that all hell broke loose and I’d need to get rescanned, but thought better of it.

I once dated a girl whose favorite genre was EDM. Every time I walked into her townhome that awful music was playing. And I’d have to take deep breaths until the feeling of wanting to smash the stereo over her head would leave me. It’s too stressful to date a chick with bad taste in music.

Now I knew I was healthy enough to get my hernia fixed, and healthy enough to start dating. The girl I was seeing at the time ended the relationship around right after this exam. Smart on her end because she was going to have to drive me to the hospital and sit there during the procedure. Like any good boy I called my mother and she was happy to fill the role.

In the next installment I’ll talk about how the procedure went (spoiler – I now have two belly buttons), and how after I went to a first date with a girdle.

photo credit: Tom Simpson Figure Slimmer, 1955 via photopin (license)

Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.

I remember thinking after that procedure, “Well, gee, I hope my next surgery is more thrilling.” Maybe I’d be lucky and get my hand chopped off in a lumber mill accident and have to get a cadaver hand sewn on. (I don’t work in a lumber mill, but a boy can dream, no?) What if the donor’s hand was more tan than me and the coloring didn’t match at the wrist? Or what if they gave me a woman’s hand because that was the only one in the freezer at the time? What if after the surgery I was at an important business meeting and I went to shake someone’s hand, and my new hand came right off my arm and the other guy stood there shaking an orphaned hand? That would be embarrassing.

As it turns out, my second surgery wasn’t much more exciting than the first. It was just a boring old umbilical hernia surgery. I wish I something way cooler to report. But I don’t. I only had like a 2% chance of death while in the operating room. Snore. I didn’t even bother to update my will beforehand.

So, what is an umbilical hernia and how did I develop one? No idea. I guess it just happens. A natural part of aging, the surgeon told me. I didn’t even bother Googling it after the diagnosis, that’s how boring the thing is. How I found out that I HAD an umbilical hernia is sort of interesting, however. Several months ago I was dating a woman named Maureen and she was staring at my belly button one evening (as women do). All of a sudden Maureen’s face turned sour and scrunched up. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You have something wrong with your belly button.” I looked down because, well, I wanted to see what she saw.

I’ve probably only looked at my own belly button one other time in my life and that was back in high school when I at a party and poured a shot of Early Times whiskey into it and asked if any girl would care to slurp it out. No takers.

But when I looked down, at now forty years old, to examine my navel for exactly the second time ever, I sort of saw what she was referencing. There was something wrong. My belly button wasn’t totally fucked up or anything. But it wasn’t, well, normal, either. It was misshapen. The best I can explain it without having you retch all over your Pumas is that some of the inside parts started making a dash for it. A move toward the light. To freedom!

I could have showed 20 of you my belly button at the time and 18 of you would have said, “Dude, you have a really sexy belly button. I mean, aside from the dark hair surrounding it. Wait, aren’t you blonde? Shouldn’t those stomach pubes be lighter?” In other words, to the non-medical professional, it looked no different from the male models gracing the cover of Men’s Health. Well, a little different. Less ab definition. I’m talking about the actual hole. It’s a pretty killer hole, if I do say so myself. And I do. Or rather, I just did.

But now it was less killer. Like an aging Hollywood starlet, it had lost symmetry. And like an aging Hollywood starlet, there was only one reasonable option – surgery.

Oh wait, let me go back to the discovery. I’m not good at linear storytelling.

So, Maureen, being a senior graphic designer at a prestigious advertising agency, knew a fucked-up belly button when she saw one. That previous sentence was meant to be sarcastic, because Maureen had no medical training at all. Her best skill was designing print advertisements for the largest cheese distributor in Utah. A noble skill, but not one that included the hippocratic oath. But since I believe virtually anything anyone tells me, I assumed she knew stuff about hernias.

I started freaking out and ran to the bathroom to see my now-imperfect belly button staring back at me. I yelled over to Maureen to ask why she was confident that I had a hernia. I pressed my right index finger directly into the hole, because I thought hernias were supposed to hurt. I was a little grossed out, but there wasn’t any pain. She replied that her last boyfriend had the same shape in his belly hole and it turned out to be an umbilical hernia. She went with him to the hospital for the procedure. Also, nursed him back to health. She promised she’d do the same for me.

The next day I called a surgeon that knows about this stuff. I walked into his office and fifteen seconds later he confirmed what my ladyfriend had asserted. I had an umbilical hernia. He told me there was nothing I could have done to prevent it and that it was not a big deal. He suggested I get the surgery, but said I didn’t have to do it immediately. I had a suspicion that Maureen was on the verge of dumping me and I wasn’t about to go back out in the dating world with a messed up belly button. It’s hard enough being single. The doctor told me to think about it and I said, “No need. Let’s do it!” He didn’t say so, but he must have been impressed by my decisiveness. It was an act of leadership.

On the way out, I casually mentioned to the surgeon, “Actually, doctor… I’ve had a hernia before. TWO, actually.” He stopped and said, “Oh, really?” And yes, that much IS true. I did have a double hernia once. But, to be honest, I was just showing off. I told him that when I was born the doctors screwed up my mom’s epidural and hit her spine with the needle. It immediately put her in a coma. I was born and hustled off to my two grandmothers while she recovered. And from day one, my two grandmothers put me on human food. A tactical error in hindsight. My dad probably didn’t know any better (I was the first child), and he was probably bummed his wife was in a coma. So, he didn’t notice I got fat pretty quick.

When my mom woke up from the coma a few weeks later and they took her home, I was already obese. A big, fat, disgusting baby. And babies are already disgusting, even when they’re not huge slobs like I was. It was so bad I was raced back to the hospital where the doctors performed an emergency double-hernia surgery on me. The doctor yelled at my mother for letting this happen and said, “I’ve never had to cut through so many layers of fat in a baby before. You ought to be ashamed!”

Funny enough, I’ve never had a weight problem since. I was only fat as a baby. Which is the best possible time to have a weight problem, now that I think about it.

Anyway, after I was done telling this story the doctor laughed. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he clasped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, D.J., congrats. You’re about to have a second hernia surgery.” I corrected him and said, “Third.” His mouth started to open to correct me that a double hernia isn’t really two hernia surgeries, but he realized I was just making a joke. He laughed and pointed at me with a look that said, “Good one!”

I left the office and took stock of my emotions. I wasn’t sad. Nor scared. Not even angry. I was kind of excited, actually.

I called Maureen and said, “Remember that thing about my belly button? You were right!” She was in the middle of a cheese video shoot for an Instagram campaign. I told her I’d need a ride to and from the hospital in two weeks. and reminded her of her promise.

My belly button was about to get back to perfect. And, even if Maureen dumped me, I’d once again have a perfect hole and likely a cool scar and we all know chicks dig scars. The only scar I possessed at the time was a two-incher on my butt where I fell through a glass table in high school. It’s not exactly the kind of scar that you’d call a panty-melter.

I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?

… part II coming up …

This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission

Attention, small-chested women!

Have you ever been dumped because of your tiny bustline? Sure you have. As a man, let me first apologize for the horrendous treatment of flat-chested women. It’s not entirely our fault—we were raised on a steady diet of the Playboys our fathers kept stashed in the upstairs hall closet—but to expect all of you to have the perfect rack of a twenty-one-year-old Jenny McCarthy is unfair. You deserve as much attention as the large-chested gals receive.

And I want you to get that attention. So I have a solution.

No, I’m not about to suggest that you head to the surgeon for saline or silicone implants. That’s the easy way, and nothing worthwhile in life is easy. Also, let’s say you get giant implants, and a month later you take up extreme kickboxing. The next thing you know you’re in the city’s kickboxing tourney, and the number one seed hits you with a surprise roundhouse kick to the left tit, and your implant flies out of your chest and through the air only to land in a guy’s beer the second row.

I’ve seen it happen.

No, my solution proposes a much safer and more natural route to a big juicy bosom. Intrigued? Introducing the F-cup Cookie from Japan.

That’s right! You can now grow your jacks several sizes just by eating cookies! And while it’s true you can make most body parts bigger if you eat enough of any cookie, the F-cup Cookie is infused with an herb that allegedly heads straight to your mammers upon ingestion. You only have to eat a few cookies a day for natural breast enhancement.

Now, I know you’re thinking: “But I don’t want an F-cup, D.J.!” Don’t fret! In Japan, DD-knockers are called F’s.

Don’t ask me questions about how it works. I dated a chemist once, and let me tell you—that shit is boring. The important thing here is that you’re already eating some kind of cookie, right? But does noshing on Oreos increase your ability to get free drinks at bars? No. Does Famous Amos care that you wear two push-up bras at the same time? Not even remotely. But the makers of the F-cup Cookie care.

They care a lot.

So, just because you’ve been the chairwoman of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee since puberty, you no longer have to serve another term. Hand in your resignation and get ready for a lifetime of lower back pain and fending off perverts. You’re worth it!

This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © doodco via depositphotos.com

One of the funniest websites south of the Mason Dixon was In The Powder Room. Run by funnywoman Leslie Marinelli and edited by funnywoman Sarah del Rio, this site accepted my pitch of a monthly column where I reviewed products for women. Sadly, the site is currently on hiatus, but they have given me permission to repost content I had written exclusively for them. I’m proud of my work, as silly as it was. They were a great partner and supportive of my immature ramblings. If they ultimately decide on a permanent vacation, I will restart the column here. In the meantime, read some old stuff.

I would like to point out that while all the words below are mine, they were edited by Sarah del Rio. She makes me funnier. I bow to her.

The DivaCup: What Does HE Think?

I should begin by pointing out that I failed Biology in junior college, and have never had a real girlfriend. My knowledge of how menstruation works is limited at best.

Also, I’m a dude.

Still, my understanding is that every month a woman gets her “curse,” and gone are the times where gals would be ushered to the edge of the village for three days. Victory for the Women’s Lib movement!

But before I talk about The DivaCup®, let’s go over the options a modern woman has to surf the Crimson Wave during Leak Week:

First, tampons. I don’t understand exactly how they work, but I did see a Playtex ad in Seventeen magazine once where a girl asked her mother, “Are you sure I’ll still be a virgin?” Since you should save your virginity for a true love, let’s steer clear of tampons. No girl should ever have to say: “My first time was with Tampax.” Keep your crack intact until the night of your senior prom. You’re worth it.

Next are sanitary napkins. I prefer this terminology to “maxi-pad” since it sounds classier. Plus, I don’t know what “maxi” means. But a napkin that keeps that area clean? Sign me up, s’il vous plait! (French idioms also make stuff sound classier).

But here’s the problem with sanitary napkins. Let’s say you land a hot date with a guy at the office in Accounts Receivable. He takes you for a high-end steak dinner (Pro Tip: steak is rich in iron, which is good when replenishing blood loss) and then back to his condo for “dessert.” Dessert, he tells you, is his wiener. So, you’re getting hot and heavy on his divan when all of a sudden you remember you’re having a spotting day. Gadzooks! You excuse yourself to the bathroom, but then what? You can’t flush a maxi-pad since you’ll clog up the toilet. If you toss the soiled napkin into the garbage, he’ll see it the next day and never speak to you again.

But if you’re wearing The DivaCup® you can yank the sucker out of your vajeen and wash it in the sink. Return to the loveseat, and let him ravish away without fear of embarrassing yourself—but remember that you’re going to need to actually remove it before he “serves you dessert.”

Highest possible recommendation!

UPDATE: I just learned you can get a patch or something where you never have a period again. Do that instead.

This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © The DivaCup via Instagram.

“I’m going to have something made to send out to all the people that write in questions for our column!” Allison responded with, “Uh huh. Have fun.” Okay, she wasn’t into it. In fact, I’ve witnessed more excitement in line at a salad bar. Now, to be fair, Allison’s and my communication mostly consist of me writing stupid things on email or instant message and then waiting for her to get annoyed. Just yesterday I was drawing up the graphic for our newest column. As a goof I created an additional one which I emailed over with, “Next month, I have our topic.” This was attached.

Allison’s entire reply?

*sighs loudly*

Deep down I believed she laughed. But she doesn’t want to encourage me. Allison thinks my ego is big enough and has made it clear that someone needs to dress me down. So, even when I have what I think are great ideas, she’s often lukewarm. And, to be fair, her compass is well-tuned. Over the holiday break I ran with this idea that I would come up with something to send out to the people that write in questions for our column. When I landed on, “Stickers! We’ll send them a sticker!” Allison was confused. “Nobody wants a sticker, D.J. Least of all, about us.” However, I had already paid someone a few shekels to draw caricatures about us. I figured once she saw the end result, her opinion would change. After a week the artist completed the job. I emailed over the proof for Allison’s approval. As expected, she hated it.

“Once again, I’m really not excited about this idea. Nobody needs another sticker and, by the way, that doesn’t even look like me!” I replied with, “It looks exactly like you. Now shaddup.” And, it does look like her. Way more more than mine. At least she doesn’t resemble an early-forties lesbian. I was going to ask the artist to draw in chest hair, which would have made people vomit, but at least confirmed my masculinity.

To me this was a slam dunk. We’d sign a bunch of these in advance, and then if when we answered questions we’d mail out a sticker. It’s a goodwill gesture and us showing appreciation to the readers. I’m not unrealistic, however. I’m aware someone would receive this sticker and deposit it directly into their garbage disposal. But that didn’t matter to me. I wanted to go above and beyond for the people nice enough to support us. And, in theory, it is a good idea.

There were a few problems, however. First, we don’t ask for anyone’s email in the question submission form. This is by design because often people write in anonymously with personal details about themselves or their families. So, I’d have to add that field to the form, and then email them asking for a mailing address. “Hey, muskassistant@tesla.com, thank you for your question about how to handle your boss’s infatuation with staring at your butt when putting away files. Where should we send this thank you sticker?” It sort of undermines the whole anonymity premise of the column.

I assumed Allison’s reluctance was a smokescreen for her true feeling that she didn’t like the caricature of herself. So I ignored her complaints and almost ordered a few hundred stickers. But, the truth was she just didn’t think it was a good idea. I disagreed, but after I reflected on it, she was right. Most people aren’t going to want to provide their personal information and, even if they do, aren’t going to get excited about a dopey sticker.

So, the sticker project is scrapped. I’m working on some other ideas to thank our readers. Here’s a prototype I’m toying with. A thank you throw pillow. Practical and classy!

photo credit: Bill David Brooks iphone 6 Plus Elon Musk Wallpaper via photopin (license)

But are Icelandic women hot?

I’m surprised that I’ve received this question since I’ve returned from my trip. Three individuals have asked this independently, and it strikes me as odd for a number of reasons. First, I’m forty and my friends are around the same age. Everyone is married, mature, and with responsible careers. This is not a question anyone my age should be asking. Second, the trip to Iceland was not sponsored by Tinder and I didn’t check to see if there was a “Hot Broads of Reykjavik” meetup group. Third, I was traveling with my sister and her husband, and the idea of scoping out local trim didn’t seem like a healthy move. Fourth, I’m dating someone which further distances me from such silliness. Fifth, and most importantly, I truthfully don’t have an answer for this question. And I’d like to talk about that further.

What I’ve noticed visiting foreign countries is that there’s an inverse relationship between how well the country is doing on its own and the overt friendliness of the natives. A negative correlation, if you will. I crafted this simple chart to drive the point firmly into Iceland’s frozen ground.

In other words, the less a country needs you to come spend money, the less they tend to kiss your fanny. Just head down to the Caribbean where every busboy becomes your new best pal. They need your dough.

Iceland has a lot going for it. There’s almost no crime, the citizens are well-compensated at their jobs, and they just seem as a whole to have their shit together. Last year they ranked third in the world in overall happiness. The U.S. ranked 13th. Icelanders focus on education, hard-work, and family. On a walking tour our guide told us if we see a homeless person not to be afraid, as an Icelandic homeless person would never approach and ask you for money. We didn’t see even one homeless person, by the way.

We were staying on the main strip, about a block from the prime minister’s office. The most important person in Iceland’s office is a nondescript two story building. His car was parked in the adjacent lot and we witnessed him walking to and from the office. No security. He was – right there. No big deal.

Iceland has no soldiers. Part of the reason is that Iceland isn’t interested in meddling in foreign affairs. They have enough going on with inclement weather and volcanoes that erupt. But what about defense? Ha! (imagine that laugh with a hearty Icleandic viking timbre) No nation in their right mind would try to occupy Iceland. 80% of the country is uninhabitable and the other 20% isn’t exactly Club Med.

And even though I spent six days in Iceland, I still don’t have a sense of the Icelandic people. I would say that they are polite and stoic. But I can’t recall even one Icelandic person coming over to me on their own to strike up a conversation. On New Year’s Eve I went over to the two singers performing at the party we attended. Both are locally famous. When I told Svavar Knútur that his song, Wanderlust, was one of the best songs I’d heard in some time, he said simply, “Thank you.” I took a picture with Una Stef and she seemed genuinely surprised that someone would want a photo with her.

It’s not that Icelandic people are unfriendly – they’re very helpful and kind. But they don’t seem overly concerned or impressed that you’re visiting. And we do the same thing in the United States. If a traveler from Australia is visiting the U.S., it would never occur to an American to say, “Thank you so much for visiting our amazing country, Sheila!” (It’s a fact that 87% of Australian women are named Sheila). We don’t fawn over visitors because, well, we don’t need them. And Iceland is the same way. People have only been vacationing there for fifteen years.

All of this leads me to my original statement that I have no idea if Icelandic women are hot. I didn’t see or speak with a ton of them. Well, I did see them – but since the temperature was always around 32 degrees Fahrenheit, everyone is bundled up at all times. You can’t tell what’s doing under all those sweaters.

But even if Icelandic women were the hottest women in the world, it still wouldn’t have impressed me. You’d have to peel off seven layers of clothes before even getting to see boobs. And that’s just too much work for me. Plus, as mentioned earlier, the woman I’m seeing wouldn’t have appreciated it. She’s square that way.

So I’m sorry to report that I can’t comment on the overall attractiveness of Icelandic females. I can comment on eating whale, however. One of their delicacies. It was gross.

Who goes to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?

When my sister sent out a blanket email to her friends back in June, I was in a terrible place in my life. Weeks before I had just been dumped by the woman I thought I would marry. I had sold my condo to move into hers but after the breakup found myself in a high rise rental nursing a broken heart. I’m a big believer that during crisis I’m best off doing what others tell me. The email my sister sent said simply, “Who wants to go to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?” My mind flashed to instances where people vacationed to Reykjavik and reported that it was one of the best vacations of their life. It took less than thirty seconds for me to reply. I was in.

I believe the original group was seven, but in December I learned that it would only be my sister, her husband, and me. We picked up a few books about Iceland and started reading. My knowledge of the country was nil. I was familiar with a few Bjork songs and knew they had the world’s first woman president. Oh, and something about the northern lights. That’s it.

We spent six days in Iceland exploring the country. The weather was better than Chicago and averaged around 32 degrees. Cold but not miserable. At this time of the year the sun comes up around 11:15 am and departs at 3:15 pm. If you wanted to see stuff without flashlights, you needed to plan your day.

I’m going to focus on a few events and sights, but spread over a few posts. Let’s start with Iceland’s most popular attraction, The Blue Lagoon. This is not to be confused with the Brooke Shields film of the same name where she plays a nude fourteen year old who falls in love living in the jungles of the South Pacific.

By the way, how did that movie ever get made? Must have been the pervy-est pitch meeting of all time. “No, don’t worry – we’re going to tape her long hair over her cans so you can’t see the nips. It’ll be classy!”

Iceland’s Blue Lagoon is about an hour’s drive from Reykjavik. Because it’s so popular you can’t just show up – you need an appointment. Oh, I haven’t told you what it is. It’s the world’s largest geothermal spa. Crap, you probably don’t know what a geothermal spa is. Well, I don’t either, but here’s my best attempt at explaining. 100% of Iceland’s power comes from renewable sources likes sun, wind, and water. Because of the volcanoes in the country, the lava underground heats up the natural water. Power plants take in the hot water and harvest electricity and then ship the water back out into the earth. Near the Blue Lagoon is a power plant. Instead of just feeding the water back into the ground, somebody figured it would make for a fun spa experience and built a huge pool. The water leaves the power plant and tunnels into the Blue Lagoon where it swishes around for two days before naturally returning to the earth. It’s a milky blue color and averages just under 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

When you arrive at The Blue Lagoon the first thing you notice is how many other people are there. There’s hundreds of other tourists running around and if you are looking for a relaxing spa day, this isn’t going to meet your needs. Odds are your idea of relaxing is not to swim around the world’s largest jacuzzi while it snows on your face. Because that’s exactly what happened during our trip. Well, it actually did much worse than snow on my face. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

My brother-in-law and I booked massages and I thought we’d be shuffled off to private interior rooms with folding tables, patchouli incense and bad new age music. Nope – this massage would be done in the water. Outside. We quickly showered (a requirement before entering the lagoon) and stepped outside to find the water-massage area.

We found our courage and stepped out into the air, glancing around for the water-massage area. It was a good fifty yards from away and the cold air pierced my body with impressive force. I couldn’t run because the deck was littered with snow and ice and the risk of slipping was very real. Plus, it’s important to look cool in front of other people, so I shuffled over at a pace that suggested “Huh, is it cold? I hadn’t noticed.” I’m sure the other tourists were impressed with my ruggedness. Meanwhile frost had developed on my chest hair and I could no longer feel my feet. We reached the massage pool and quickly stepped in the water. The water was so warm that within a minute I no longer noticed the outside freezing temperature. I was comfortable. There were eight masseuses, seven of them men. My brother-in-law and I both prayed we’d be assigned to the one female. Nope. We got dudes.

Let me explain the water-massage setup. It’s a pool where the massage recipient lays on a flotation mat, face up. There is a blanket on top of the body to protect exposed areas from the cold. Each masseuse wore a thick bodysuit and wool winter hat. The men have dense beards. While I didn’t snap a pic of my masseuse, he looked exactly like this.

My masseuse, whose name I didn’t catch but I’ll call Magnús (because it was probably Magnús) hoisted me onto the float raft and draped a heavy blanket across my chest. He asked if I wanted a towel to cover my face. “No, Magnús. Did you not see how I strolled over without discomfort even though my left pinky toe went into frostbite?” He shrugged and started the massage. I was a few minutes in and starting to relax when the first piece of hail hit my cheek. Within seconds my face was being pelted with small, stinging pieces of ice. “Uh, Magnús, I’ll take that face towel now.” He laughed and a few seconds later a towel draped over my eyes protecting me from the ice bullets. The next thing I knew I felt the face towel came off and I saw clouds. Instantly I snapped back into consciousness and realized the session was over. I had fallen asleep. In a hailstorm. Face up and in a pool.

I shook hands with Magnús and exited the massage area. He didn’t say how impressed he was that I could brave the elements, but I could sense it on his face. However, I will not be joining any viking armies to further prove my masculinity, but that’s just because there aren’t any decent viking wars going on right now. Which is a bummer because I’m certain I’d be excellent at pillaging. Plundering, too. I do, though, get seasick like you wouldn’t believe. I’d be heaving my guts before we left port. Bonine – I’d have to bring a shitload of Bonine. Or those tabs you put behind your ear. Oh, and I’d have to grow a beard, I guess.

The Blue Lagoon part II is coming next.

photo credit: acase1968 Johan Hegg of Amon Amarth via photopin (license)

I needed more guy friends.

One of the bummers of turning forty is that almost all of my male friends are married. This is not a bummer for them, of course. And, damn it if they didn’t all marry well. And, once someone marries well, children are soon to follow. This is accompanied by a move to the suburbs where the excitement of city life is sacrificed for a larger home with actual grass. I’ve lived in the city for sixteen years and I’m one of the last holdouts. However, there’s no good argument to be made for a single guy moving out to the suburbs until he’s forced. The upside is that I live smack in the middle of a million fun city activities. The downside is that nobody else I know still does. So, I’m lonely.

Please don’t take this as a complaint. Nobody likes a complainer, including me. In life you have to go and and get the things you want. And, at forty, I found myself thinking something I had never thought previously.

I want some dudes!

Years before I was part of an organization where a bunch of us guys would hang out every two weeks for a few hours and talk about important stuff. Work, women, kids – anything that was going on. You could classify it as a support group, but in reality it was a group of guys meeting and listening to each other. I was a member of this group for years – until I was booted out. I had stopped going because a crazy guy had been allowed in and started harshing everyone’s mellow. I came back months later and the nutty guy basically told me how I had ruined his life and the group had to decide if it was him or me. Since he had been a more consistent member I got the boot.

This brings us to the present. I find myself living in one of the best parts of one of the best cities, but pretty damned lonely. I put my brain to work on how to meet some guys. I know how to meet chicks. That’s easy. But a guy? I don’t watch sports, which is a bummer since there are seventy four sports bars within two blocks of me. Maybe I could slap on a jersey of one of the teams here and saddle up next to another jersey-wearer at a pub. Nah, it would be inauthentic. Plus, shit, I don’t drink. You can’t watch a game wearing a jersey at a sports bar without being asked to funnel a beer after they win the big game, right?

I remembered that the guys who kicked me out of their group years before were part of a larger men’s organization. Literally thousands of men have been through this program. I sent an email to the head of their member services. Told them I was looking to get more involved and I needed a new group. I didn’t mention that I was kicked out of the previous one – figured that wouldn’t help them want to place me. I pushed send on the email and hoped I wasn’t blacklisted in their database. They replied within an hour and were thrilled to hear from me. After a month of back and forth, we found a group that wanted me and that I thought was a good fit.

In this new group, I’m the young guy. Most of the men (there’s seven of us total) are fifty-five to seventy years of age. But much like girls who were abandoned by their fathers, I like older men. They’re wiser than me. They have better perspective. Plus, they don’t screw around. So, when I told them I wanted to start working out again they asked me to make a commitment. This was a good idea because without accountability I don’t get my ass to the gym. And exercising is one of those cornerstone activities that helps just about other every area of my life aside from just looking awesome in the mirror.

I wish I was wired up more for the carrot than the stick, but I ain’t. Pain is the ultimate motivator. I wake up on Saturdays with the intention of getting to the gym, but I end up watching television and scratching my nuts on the sofa. However, let’s say while I was lounging a guy broke into my apartment and pointed a revolver at my dog’s temple, telling me that if I don’t go bust out a 60 minute circuit training set right then, he’s going to paint the wall with my chihuahua’s blood. You can bet I’d find my New Balances pretty damned quick and be out the door.

I just realized that by accident, I ripped off that idea from National Lampoon Magazine whose most famous cover of all time was…

Anyway, the guys in the group asked me what it would take for me to actually commit to the workouts. I said, “Well, I need a punishment that is painful.” One man asked, “Do you support the KKK?” I told him that I did not. He said, “Perfect. How about if you don’t go to three workouts within two weeks you donate $100 to them.” Ooh – that would be painful! Great idea! However, there’s a few issues with that punishment – first, I don’t really want to help fund a hate group. I can’t imagine that would sit well with God and wouldn’t be easy to explain to St. Peter at the gates of heaven. I really hope there is a God and a gate – I like a little pizazz and showmanship in spirituality, you know? Also, if I did send the check in to the hate group, I would imagine the government might start tapping my phone. You’d have to make the donation in cash, and then use gloves, remember to not use a return address, etc. It’s a hassle.

Then, one of the other men said, “Hey, didn’t you just get ripped off by someone?” In fact I had. If you aren’t familiar with that story, you can read it here. “What if you gave the money to the woman that screwed you over?” BINGO. Red hot anger shot through me at even the thought of giving this shithead another nickel. And I even had a perfect way to get it to her. I accidentally have a pair of her pants in my closet. I had already told her that I had the pants and that I would return them. She told me to just throw them away. All I would have to do is send a letter saying, “When I threw out your pants, I found this $100 inside.” She would think the money was hers, and would keep it. It was perfect.

So, that’s what I committed to – three workouts in two weeks. Doable, but with a real punishment. You have to admit it’s a pretty good motivator.

I’m proud that I set up a fitness goal with a real consequence. I’m also proud that I now have seven new buddies. I’m also proud I’m the only one in the group without gray pubes. For now.

photo credit: xjyxjy 070805 Lidköping bm naked Flora garden art via photopin (license)